The academy didn’t speak of what happened. No announcements. No punishments. Not even a whisper from the instructors.


    But something changed.


    The cadets who used to laugh when Caelan walked past now looked away. Some still mocked. But most just watched. Like prey noticing the shift in a predator’s scent.


    Whispers started in the back of the lecture halls. Quiet looks during sparring sessions. Even instructors gave him distance. No one could prove what had happened—but the ones who saw it remembered. And the rest could feel it.


    Something had broken. Something dangerous had emerged.


    Lucan didn’t waste time.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Caelan’s mornings began at 4. Training was brutal. No drills. No forms. Just raw, relentless violence.


    “You fight like a caged dog,” Lucan spat one morning. “Let’s make you a wolf.”


    He taught Caelan how to channel rage, not drown in it. How to predict a noble’s movements by rhythm and flow. How to use his lower-class instincts—the street brawler’s eye for openings. Lucan broke him down and rebuilt him every damn day.


    Caelan bled. Threw up. Collapsed. And came back stronger.


    In the academy, eyes tracked his every move.


    Elira Veilnare stared longer during lectures. Her gaze, once amused, had sharpened—like a duelist measuring a blade.


    Eryx said nothing, but Caelan caught him watching during training. Sometimes nodding. Sometimes smirking.


    The noble circles buzzed.


    Rumors swirled:


    A savage from the gutters survived a Lich.


    He maimed a noble.


    He fought instructors.


    He’d been taken in by Lucan Dras Varro himself.


    No one could confirm any of it. But the rumors bled into myth.


    And then came the announcement:


    Black Fang Trials. Private Invitation.


    Only the best. Only the noble. Only the killers.


    Caelan was on the list.